


Sea Cranes

by Druddigonite



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Flowers, Hanahaki Disease, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, M/M, Minor Mai/Zuko, So many flowers, what am I doing with my life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-22
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2019-11-28 00:18:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18200930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Druddigonite/pseuds/Druddigonite
Summary: Between chasing the Avatar and dealing with his disgrace, Zuko begins to cough up flowers.





	1. Scorch the Tides

**Author's Note:**

> For such a large fandom, I'm surprised that ATLA hasn't had a hanahaki fic yet. So I made one. 
> 
> Standard warnings for hanahaki apply, i.e. vomiting, respiratory problems, etc.

****

I. Scorch the Tides

It was after Zuko’s first brush with the Avatar that he noticed he’d been coughing more than usual lately. 

The discovery wasn’t such a big deal back then; firebenders were ill-adapted to the subzero temperatures found on the poles, and there had been a bout of fever going around on the ship. Compared to some of his men confined to the infirmary, Zuko was well off. He could still shout orders on the deck, his voice a little hoarser for wear but still usable, and pursue the Avatar. He was fine. He was totally fine.

That didn’t stop Uncle from casting a concerned glance at his nephew when Zuko doubled down into a coughing fit for the seventh time during their breathing exercises.

"Perhaps you should rest.”

"I’m fine,” Zuko gritted out. He needed to learn advanced firebending techniques in order to defeat the Avatar, but Uncle insisted that he had to master the basics before moving on, and he couldn’t waste any more time dawdling. Zuko straightened his back into his meditation position before inhaling again; there was a tickling sensation at the back of his throat, light and insistent, and he ended up exhaling way too fast in order to contain his coughs.

Uncle all but ignored him. "The lesson is over, Prince Zuko. A sapling that weathers the storm may grow strong, but if the wind is too strong it will break." He began getting up. ”I’ll brew some tea; perhaps the cook is willing to spare some honey.”

"Don’t you dare!” Zuko snapped, rising to his feet. He was sick of relaxing while his target got away, sick of standing around doing nothing while the world continued without him. "The Avatar is _here_ , Uncle. We’ve been searching for him for three years, and he finally shows up, and now you help him get away, is that what you’re doing?”

"I did no such thing,” Uncle countered, unfazed. He was already used to his nephew’s outbursts. "But a man needs his rest. An ill captain is never a good captain.”

"I said I’m _FINE_.” Zuko growled in frustration, hands tugging through his hair. "Before I...”—was banished, he was supposed to say banished, but the wound is still bitter on his mind and he _can’t_ —"...left, you and the entire crew took an oath to serve me to the best of my interests. And now I am ordering you to train me, so I expect—”

A tsunami of pain cascaded against his chest before he could finish his statement, and Zuko suddenly found himself heaving on the wooden deck. It felt like his lungs were mutinying against him.

"—myself to be in my room.” He wheezed, squeezing past Uncle into his personal chambers. The inside was a mess after the Avatar’s attack: tips and official reports of sightings that he’d been studying prior scattered across the floor, candles knocked askew. 

Zuko curled up on his bed and coughed.

"I am fine,” he said, over and over, until he drifted off in a fitful sleep.

* * *

When Zuko first stepped out onto the ice, he faced a single warrior standing between him and his prey.

Warrior was an overstatement; he was just kid, clutching those primitive weapons with a face slathered with barbaric pigments, a boy playing dress up among men. It was pathetic, really. Decades ago, the Water Tribe military was a formidable force, capable of seizing the tides and using them to their advantage. Now, they barely stood as resistance. 

He gave a battle cry as he came at Zuko, who didn’t even break step as he snapped his spear before elbowing him hard enough to send him sprawling to the side. His body skidded across the expanse of ice, and Zuko continued walking.

"Get up Sokka! Show them what you’re made of!” one of the kids cheered in the back, trilling her _k_ s in the traditional way of the Southern dialect. This seemed to prompt him to get up again, albeit shakily. His breaths billowed like steam into the frigid air.

The peasant produced a club out of nowhere and charged roaring at him again. This time Zuko high-kicked his hand hard enough to send his weapon flying, and his battle cry cracked in pain. Now that he was unarmed, Zuko blasted him point blank in the chest. It wasn’t enough to incinerate, not with the weather so cold, but the force sent Sokka back several meters.

He laid still in snowdrifts as Zuko marched up and grabbed the oldest woman in the group—likely the person of authority in this decrepit little tribe. "Listen, if you to hand over the Avatar, we can all walk away unharmed.” (Except for the boy, but he got what he deserved.)

The woman shook her head, eyes impossibly wide. "You must be mistaken. There is no Avatar here. Hasn’t been for a hundred years.”

"I know what I saw—only the Avatar can make a pillar of light out here in the Agni-damned middle of nowhere. I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if I have to, so you can either die like the cowards you are or surrender the Avatar for custody like sensible, civilized people.” Zuko fisted her collar and yanked, roughly, eliciting a small sound from her.

"Let go of my Gran Gran!!”

Sokka was up again, his pelts blackened, his hair singed, but still standing, pointing a weaponless finger at him. Some of the paint had flaked off now, and Zuko could make out the hard line of his jaw, the blazing determination set in his gaze. "We Water Tribe are many things, but we are never cowards. And for my tribe, I will never give up without a fight!”

Famous last words, Zuko thought, though he felt a twinge of familiarity the phrase, spoken with the strange lilting cadence of tribespeak. He curled his lip. 

"Brave words for a filthy peasant playing soldier, boy. Since you’re still capable of speaking, how about you hand over the Avata—”

And all of a sudden Zuko found himself eating dirt (or rather, snow) with a throbbing dent on his temple as Sokka caught an oddly shaped thing as it came towards him. The Water tribe peasant had hit him— _a Water Tribe peasant has actually hit him_ —enough to knock him head over heels into the ground. His hands were smoking around him, a heat was building in his chest, though whether it was from the embarrassment or shame he wasn’t sure.

Screw it with negotiations—Zuko was never great at them unless they involved fire. "Alright, that’s it, I’m—”

His words were interrupted once again by a strong gust of wind as an orange-clad monk came running out of nowhere.

* * *

And so the Avatar came, surrendered, then escaped again.

Zuko had retired into his chambers earlier than usual that day, to rub his bruises with an ointment Uncle had slipped him. He was mad: angry at the Avatar for breaking his vow, enraged at the waterbender—there weren’t supposed to be any Southern waterbenders left, his forefathers made sure of that—that almost capsized his ship, seething at the incompetence of his crew. His temple throbbed every time he jerked his bandages too hard.

But he couldn’t find it in him to be mad about Sokka, the lone warrior standing between Zuko and the people he loved. Who fell hard, hopeless, yet had the courage to stand, time and time again. Who never gave up without a fight.

He could respect that.

* * *

The issue with Zuko’s lungs had remained at a low simmer the rest of his chase to the North Pole. Which was good, because he couldn’t have afforded to choke on his breath while diving in the crystal waters with the turtle seals.

(He tried not to think of what happened at the North Pole. He had nightmares about everything anyway.)

That wasn’t much of a problem in his waking hours, however; what was a problem was how after the siege, he had constantly been feeling cold inside, as if a winter breeze was settling in his chest. His internal fire was still there, but ebbing, trading blows with the new chill inside of him.

It scared Zuko more than he would ever admit to Uncle (who had honor and a family and a place in his home but still cut off his topknot with grim determination, who Zuko never understood but was forever grateful for), when he could wake up in cold sweat to the warring within him, shiver even through sweltering Earth Kingdom heat. And when he managed to find alone time in the woods Zuko would lean forward and cough and cough and cough, then wipe his mouth with his hand to see scarlet streaked across pallid skin. 

Uncle thought he was doing something else. Zuko let him continue thinking that. 

Didn’t help that they were essentially Earth Kingdom refugees now, had to fight to have a roof above their heads and food in their stomachs, then be up and gone the very next day. To his utter mortification, Zuko was proving to be slower than Iroh; they had to stop multiple times over the course of their trek so he could sit down and stop the thunder in his chest. It was why he stole the ostrich-horse from the nice girl and her family—dishonorable or not, he’d rather be a thief than a burden. 

The Avatar was gone. The Avatar had escaped once again, decimating the Fire Navy in the process, and this time Zuko had the humility to wonder why he was even still alive. 

They’d managed to barter a single candle from a merchant of a town miles behind them, so Zuko lit it with his fingers and closed his eyes. Breathed, in out in out. He could feel its heat hitch at the same time he did, flaring erratically with the roughage of his respiration. There was a stab of pain in his gut, as if one of the waterbender’s icicles had cut clean through him.

Zuko choked—hard—and the flame sputtered out. 

It hurt to breathe. It hurt that he was clad in rags and sat muddied on the forest floor, such a far cry from his royal upbringing. It hurt that his father had condemned his firstborn to chase a vanished god, only to cast him aside the moment they fell to earth. 

He fell to his knees, laid in the dirt taking ragged breaths. It hurt to live. 

And suddenly Zuko remembered the lone boy on the iceberg, giving himself up as the final defense against an enemy so much bigger and stronger than he was. Remembered the solidarity in which he stood, skirt armor silhouetted against the brightening Kyoshi horizon. Remembered the defiance in his stare as pillars crumbled between them.

Before she left, Zuko’s mother had told him that courage was not the act of being brave, but the tenacity that keeps a man fighting even when the odds are against him, when they’re scared, when they don’t want to. Never stand down without a reason, never give up without a fight. His scars and his bruises and his rags and unkempt hair were a testament of what he’d been through, and how far he’d continue. 

Perhaps that was enough.

His breathing was stiller when he lit his candle again. As he meditated, Zuko remembered the peasant’s words to him, and this time the cold never encroached.

* * *

"Sincerest apologies, Prince Zuko, but Admiral Zhao has recently issued a lockdown of Crescent Island until we get the Avatar under control. We suggest you stay put for your own safety.”

"The Avatar is a powerful entity capable of destroying entire fleets with a wave of his hand, and you’re a fool for keeping a master firebender hostage while he burns this temple into the ground,” Zuko seethed, his chains growing red-hot in his ire. He was bound to a pillar with the Water Tribe siblings bound to the other while the Avatar frolicked in Roku’s secret chamber. In the corner of his eye, he caught the waterbender staring at him openly. Her brother was bound beside her, but Zuko’s vision was turning red at the edges and he couldn't muster the effort to decipher that look. "I am Prince Zuko, Son of Ursa and Fire Lord Ozai, Heir to the Throne, which means I am ranked higher than any admiral. I order you to release me.”

"Banished Prince Zuko.” The old crone of a Fire Sage looked at him pointedly, and Zuko became acutely aware of the Fire Nation land he now stood on. "Which means you're lower than the common man.”

It was true and it stung, sticking like a huge lump in Zuko’s throat. Before he could bite out a retort, Roku’s doors swung open to reveal the Fire Avatar himself. 

His blasts of fire were pure, unadulterated power, scorching granite and cutting through marble like butter. It was destruction on another level, and this time Zuko had the unfortunate privilege of witnessing it up close

Since the Fire Sages were too busy scrambling away from the crumbling temple, Zuko bent away the chains and steadied himself on the shifting ground. A few feet away, he saw the Avatar—just a little bald monk now—collapse into the waterbender’s arms. He seemed to be unconscious.

With bits of scaffolding raining around him and lava spurting from the ground Zuko’s situation was not ideal; however, he was nothing if not an opportunist. He took a step toward…

...And was promptly met with a weaponized boomerang in the face. 

Despite the rumbles of a volcano, Sokka’s stance was steady, his grip unerring as he pressed his blade against Zuko’s neck. "One more step and I’ll flay you.”

"Try me, peasant,” Zuko shot back, though his heart really wasn’t into the threat. They were leaning so close together; he could map the tiny sunspots splattered against Sokka’s nose and cheeks, how the light of the sun and lava reflected across bronze. Despite his Water Tribe heritage, his eyes seemed to almost burn with steely resolve. Zuko’s attention trailed down to his neckline and he swallowed, the bob of his Adam's apple nicking the edge of Sokka’s blade.

His train of thought was interrupted when a piece of the ceiling plummeted between then, making Sokka draw back with a yell. Zuko took a step forwards him. 

A stray stone clipped him on the shoulder before he thought better of it, turned tail, and ran back toward the way he’d come from. The Avatar was escaping, but unlike Zhao, Zuko would rather survive than be buried in the rubble.

A thin stream of blood trickled down his neck as temple walls fell down behind him. 

Deep in his lungs, something fluttered.

* * *

Uncle seemed to settle well into his new home and his job as a tea maker. Zuko couldn’t have said that for himself.

Not that it was bad, per se. There was something meditative in going about each day step by step, with no goal in mind other than doing the best he could and repeating the same tomorrow. Eventually, Zuko’s hands developed calluses to grip the trays better, his self-restraint in dealing with nasty customers grew and he could finally get the sparkrocks to cast fire in a single strike. His hair was growing in fast, and when he looked in the mirror, Zuko could no longer see himself. 

This was the happiest he’d seen Uncle. General Iroh had always been weighed down by the ghosts of his past, but surrounded by the low chatter of customers under the flickering light of a single dusty bulb, he seemed positively aglow with enthusiasm. Zuko was happy for him; Uncle just wasn’t the same since Lu Ten died. 

But a quiet life wasn’t for Zuko. He’d been getting antsy, paranoia whispering in his ear to double-check the shutters and doors of their rundown shed of a living space, sleep with his pearl blade under his pillow. Jet’s attack only exacerbated his fears; he’d dream of flashing metal against blue flames before waking up coughing—retching, heaving, feeling jittery as waves of heat and freeze roiled inside him. 

During his third awakening, Zuko coughed and felt something dislodge inside his throat. There was a black mass on his threadbare sheets, dark liquid leaking out of it. 

He couldn’t make out what it was, however; it was the dead of night and firebenders weren’t famed for their night vision. Zuko checked the windows (closed), the door (locked), and his uncle (snoring) before gently lighting a flame on the tip of his forefinger. It was weak, barely alight, belching out the ashen smoke of a dying fire, but cast off enough light for Zuko to see what he’d coughed out. 

A...flower?

Zuko blinked, rubbed his eyes with his other hand, and looked down again. He’d coughed out a flower. 

The small leaves had a low-growing, lichen-like quality to them, not dissimilar to the kinds of plants that grew on rocks. Tiny clusters of flowers rose from it, their five-petaled blooms sky blue in color with a sunburst of yellow in the center. As Zuko moved his flame closer, he noticed the speckles of red—blood, his blood—that dusted its surface. 

No. No no no no no. This couldn’t be happening. Was he dreaming? He must be dreaming. Zuko pinched himself as hard as he could and muffled a yelp at the pain. 

Zuko grabbed the flowers (felt damp, tried not to think about feeling damp) with both hands and squeezed, willed all his anger and panic into the force. There was a brief flare of light that escaped the cracks between his fingers; when he opened them again, a film of charcoal ash drifted onto the ground. 

This was not happening. This couldn’t be happening. None of this happened. Everything was a dream.

He pulled the covers over his head and hoped it would be gone by morning.

* * *

He’d found Uncle again. He found Uncle and he’s hurt and he’s helpless and it was all Zuko’s fault.

"No,” he whispered, cradling Uncle’s head in his hands while keeping the panic at bay. The Avatar and his friends were watching but for once he didn’t care. Uncle was worth more than a thousand Avatars. Over the last three years, Uncle had been his home.

And maybe Zuko hadn’t been controlling his panic as well as he thought, because when the waterbender—Katara, he remembered the Avatar saying—approached him, he lashed out with fire before he saw the stricken expression on her face.

They backed off and left, presumably to run away again, and Zuko took it upon himself to carry Uncle into the shade of the trees. It was messy work; their ostrich-horse had fled in the flight so he had to carry the man on his back, Uncle’s pained grunts tempered by each step he took. As dangerous as it was to stay put after a fight, especially now that Azula knew where they were, Uncle was in no shape to travel. Zuko set up camp in a skeleton of a house that was more scaffolding than structure, not far from the ghost town.

Zuko poked a fire he’d made from scraps of kindling. It was supposed to keep them warm, though he wasn’t really feeling it; the wintry chill from before had settled permanently in his body now.

He was stoking its flame when he heard the footsteps of someone coming from outside. Zuko was immediately on alert, drawing out his dao blades and shifting so he stood between the intruder and his uncle. (He was the only person who stood by Zuko after his banishment; it was time he paid that compassion back.)

His stance faltered when a very familiar head poked out from behind the wall. 

Removed from the opposing side of the battlefield, Sokka seemed to be more of an awkward teenager than anything. Now that he’d shed his thick pelts, Zuko could see the lanky frame of his build, how his thin tunic clung to his ribs, the obvious way he hid his hands behind his back but pretended he wasn’t. "Hey Jerkbende—I mean, uh, Zuko. Yeah. Glad to see you're still here. I guess I’m not really glad to see you because you’re still a huge asshole, but it’s common courtesy to compliment someone which you Fire Nationers probably don’t understand—”

Zuko was too tired for this. "Why’re you still here?” he coughed as he interjected, watching Sokka’s face morph into one of confusion. Unlike his sister, he had not yet learned to guard his expression. 

Sokka straightened.

"Toph is worried about your, uh, uncle,” he explained, like Zuko knew who the hell he was talking about, "She’s acting all distressed and saying that your uncle helped her a lot, so I, uh, decided to bring you guys this. As thanks. For her, of course.”

His movements were jerky, yet strangely fluid, as he brought out what he’d been hiding behind his back. Zuko’s grip tensed on his blades but loosened when Sokka produced a bundle of long, white bandages. 

Zuko couldn’t stop his good eye from widening as he caught the heap. The bandages were dusty, but medical grade and much better than any alternative once he was done washing and boiling them. Sokka shrugged sheepishly, looking anywhere but him. “I stole it from Katara’s healing supplies, which probably means she’ll kill me, again, once she finds out. She’s probably going to make me scrub Appa’s toes for a week. You so owe me for this.” He eyed Zuko warily, zeroing on his dao blades. Zuko sheathed them and placed his hands, palms up, on his lap in what he hoped was a universal gesture of ‘I’ve unarmed myself’. “You have a little sister, right? You know how it is.”

He stretched the bandages to test their tension and tried not to think about Azula’s bloodless smirk. “Mhm. Sure.” Still surprised, he glanced up at Sokka, who was lingering in the doorway. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“The bandages.”

“What about the bandages? You’re going to have to be more specific, bro.” 

Zuko snorted flame in irritation. “Why are you giving them to me? The Avatar might need these later.” He submerged the bandages in a bucket of fresh water he had gathered earlier, heating it until the air began to steam (which took more time than usual now that his fire was getting weaker, not that Sokka knew). Neither he nor his uncle had the foresight to buy soap, so hand scrubbing would have to do for now. “And don’t call me bro.” 

“Ah.” To his dismay, Sokka let himself in and sat cross-legged on the ground. “Because your uncle needs them now, and that trumps any hypotheticals about Aang. He may be the avatar, but he’s not everything either. Aang and Katara and Toph and I—we’re a family, and everyone’s equally important. Nobody gets special treatment.” The peasant stared unabashedly at Zuko as he worked. “Your ilk may have hurt me and my sister and my tribe, but I’m not Katara; Vengeance isn’t the way to go. You threatened my Gran Gran, but that doesn’t mean I’ll let you watch your Uncle die. ”

“That’s a liability in war.”

“It shouldn’t be.” Sokka sighed. He leaned onto the wall and closed his eyes, laid back despite the presence of his enemy standing not a half a meter away from him. “Y’know, I used to hate you Fire Nation a lot. But I’ve been dragged across the world and back, I’ve seen things that I would’ve have imagined a few months ago. I don’t think I’ll ever forgive you guys for what you did, but I understand more now.” 

Zuko remained silent as he dried the bandages with his heatbending. Oddly, he didn’t mind having the peasant here. Maybe it was the fact he was his age, or that Uncle was still out cold, or something else entirely; Sokka’s presence was therapeutic in a way eased the frigid feeling in Zuko’s chest—the one he’s had ever since he became a traitor—letting gentle warmth seep in. 

He fumbled with wrapping the bandages around Uncle. He’d lost enough weight for Zuko to carry him without difficulty, but he was still unconscious, his body limp and hard to maneuver. Undressing his torso was bad enough (the fulgurite etching Uncle’s skin made him faint), but the actual bandaging proved to be worse. Zuko cursed as he dropped his roll for the fifth time. 

“Here, let me help.” He was so focused on his task that he didn’t see Sokka edging closer, startling him.

“Don’t touch him!” Zuko snapped with enough force to send him into another coughing fit, and Sokka stopped in his tracks. The Water Tribe boy was strangely comforting at times but he was still the enemy, could still hurt Uncle, shouldn’t be trusted when Zuko was weak with whatever illness he had. They stood facing each other, while Zuko took deep breaths to calm his lungs. 

His pride was getting in the way of things again. Sokka was dangerous, but Zuko knew that he wouldn’t be able to dress Uncle alone. He had no other options; either he let Sokka help or risk infection. Zuko exhaled shakily. 

“I’m sorry, go on.” He heard himself saying hoarsely. Sokka crouched next to Uncle and started dressing his wound with expert fingers. The peasant worked with tireless efficiency, flicking the bandage over Uncle’s shoulder in a practiced twist of his wrist, then pulling it taut again like he’d done it a thousand times. Zuko helped prop Uncle up, and felt a jolt of static every time Sokka’s skin brushed his. 

“It’s okay, it’s not your fault your nation doesn’t teach their princes basic first aid.” Sokka’s response was pure snark, because of course it was. 

He stood back to admire his handiwork, and Zuko was too tired to fire back a retort. His run-in with Azula, along with his sleepless days on horseback prior, took more out of him than he expected. He coughed again, eyes already half-lidded. 

Sokka was still talking as he drifted off, warmth pulsing through his body. When Zuko woke, he was gone. 

There was a blue petal on his chest. Must’ve been the wind.


	2. Drown in Flames

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to everyone who gave kudos and commented! You guys give me life :)

**II. Drown in Flames**

The curtains lining the palace halls fluttered with an oncoming warm draft, but all Zuko felt was the chill inside him. 

He’d won. The Avatar was dead, caught in the clutches Azula’s lighting (he tried not to think of Uncle’s wound, of lightning blooming on pale skin, because what’s done was done and he won. He’d won.), he was wearing his hair in a topknot and royal robes instead of rags and got to sit next to Father during their war meetings, where this time he knew better than to interject. He slept in his own room, rose with the sun; the familiar layout of the palace greeted him like a friend he’d never left as Zuko headed for the courtyards. 

If this was was victory tasted like, it tasted sour. 

Ever since his choice in the Crystal Catacombs, he’d felt nothing but winter’s numbness and sharp bite. The specially-prepared palace food turned bland on his tongue, no matter how much wine he washed it down with. Each step he took felt tempered with the frozen shackles of a lifetime’s guilt. And once, when he felt compelled to touch the fire that lined his Father’s throne, it seared not with heat but with an empty frost. 

Zuko climbed the hill to a towering gingko tree that overlooked the turtleduck pond, a favored meditation area for him before his banishment. This time he started out with a kata, inhaling deep to stretch his lungs then extending his arms away from his sides, trying to coax his inner flame outwards. Sparks jumped at his fingertips. 

Agni’s sun was casting the entire caldera in his rays, but Zuko couldn’t to feel them on his skin. He delved inwards and tried harder. Breathe. In, out, in, out. 

Sokka’s last words flashed unbidden in his mind’s eye. He remembered the peasant’s sneer, face twisted in betrayal (and his eyes, there was something in them like Uncle had whenever Zuko tried to talk to him in prison) as he parried off his broadswords. Further away the Avatar was falling, falling, and his voice was thick with pain “I should’ve known. Once a firebender, always a firebender.” 

Zuko thought about how he saw him that day. A scarred Prince, abandoning the uncle he’d risked so much to bring from the brink of death, along with the friend that helped take care of him, all at the drop of a pin for a personal goal. In an epiphany, he wondered when he started calling Sokka a friend. 

They weren’t really friends, not in the traditional sense. Friends wouldn’t try to kill each other every time they crossed paths. Friends didn’t meet on opposite sides of the battlefield. When it came to relationships, theirs was more of a bloodied clash of elements. 

But he couldn’t deny ineffable team they were while wrapping Uncle’s bandages, ow he’d thought of him when Katara mentioned their mother died and said: “That’s something we have in common.” 

The sun had fully risen, sky bathed in the light pinks and yellows of a new day; Zuko’s inner flame spluttered and died with it, and he retired to his room to rest. 

Several weeks later, Zuko woke with flowers spilled across his bed. 

The nightly occurrences had been happening for months now, and it no longer instilled a sense of panic in him as much as it did resignment. The petals fluttered a little as he picked them up, piece by piece, The sky was still dark; Zuko groped around his bedside for a pair of sparkrocks he’d stashed in the corner, lighting a candle with them. Despite his mornings spent soaking up as much sun as possible, his bending had dwindled in power until he could barely ignite a single candle. 

Light blue glinted from the crimson floorboards as he bent to pick them up, careless about the wax dripping onto his fingers. Zuko gathered them in his sleeping robes before tossing them with the others in his closet, where his servants were forbidden from checking. 

His lungs were starting to constrict again, his breathing coming in wheezes, so Zuko fumbled with the knob of his cabinet and drew out a tea set along with a jar of honey, slices of ginger, and opiate extract. He’d left a half-empty pitcher by his bedside; the water teetered dangerously against the side of his cup and he filled it. In went the ingredients, and Zuko carefully heated the brew with the candle. 

Despite the sweetness of honey and sharpness of ginger, Zuko still grimaced from the bitterness as it went down. The weak tea served its purpose well enough; the throbbing in his chest subsided and he no longer felt the need to cough. His opiate extract was running low, however, and it wouldn’t be long until Zuko had to consult his physician for more. 

Discreetly, of course. It was unseemly for someone as high prestige as he was to be in anything less than top physical condition, much less have a breathing problem as a firebender. Since coming back to the Fire Nation, all Zuko had been doing was hiding. 

Surprisingly, Father was fairly easy to fool. Zuko avoided him on most days, and firebending in council meetings was forbidden anyways, with the exception of the Fire Lord. He had an inkling that Azula suspected something—she was there during their fight in the Crystal Catacombs, after all, and her haughty facade broke into bewilderment when he drew out his broadswords instead of his flames. If she knew the reason behind that decision as well as why Zuko consistently failed to show up for firebending practice with her, she seemed to be keeping it to herself. Azula kept many things to herself, he’d learned. Ozai was under the impression that Zuko fought and killed the Avatar as a master firebender because of her. 

(She crowed that it would make Zuko’s failures all the sweeter, but her smile rose around the edges when he thanked her.) 

The next day Ozai attended several meetings Zuko wasn’t invited to and Azula was out manning Ba Sing Se, so he spent his hours frequenting the royal archives. Once regarded as a jewel of knowledge rivaling even the fabled Wan Shi Tong’s library, the library had fallen into disrepair as its inhabitants familiarised themselves with battlefields rather than leather-bound tomes. With luck, he could find more information on his affliction that wasn’t too outdated. 

Zuko ran his fingers across rows and rows of book spines, reveling in the trail of dust they left behind, when his hand stilled across a strange symbol, Embossed on the side was a blooming flower, something that caught his eye among the other medical tomes. He picked it up, sneezing at the cloud of dust it dispelled. 

On the cover was a diagram of a person’s upper body, with the respiratory system etched yellow against coarse red. Zuko noted the flowers that rose from it, their stems and roots entwined with the person’s organs. His other hand flew to his throat, and he rubbed the uncomfortable lump situated there. 

He read the title. It said, simply: “Hanahaki Disease”. 

_Hanahaki disease is a rare phenomenon where flowering species become parasitic, entwining their bodies among a victim’s respiratory organs. Regardless of their flowering period, the parasitic specimen seems to be in perpetual bloom.”_

A blue petal floated down to rest among the pages. 

_There are three major stages of hanahaki, each with unique symptoms. Stage one initiated with a constant, chronic cough. Patients may find themselves more and more out of breath as the plant takes up more space in their trachea, bronchi, and lungs. Stage two starts with an imbalance of chi in the body, even if the patient has mastered control over theirs, due to the plant obstructing chi paths and taking chi for their own growth. Stage three is when the patient begins vomiting flowers._

_When left unchecked, stage three hanahaki results in death, either from suffocation or chi deficiency. As of writing, there have been two confirmed treatments that may remove hanahaki._

This was it. This was what he had. Zuko bit down hard on a flower that threatened to slip past his lips. His gaze rested on the section titled “Cause and Treatments”. 

_Studies show that hanahaki is not contagious and has only one cause; an unrequited love that—_

The book bounded off the opposite wall, landing with a muted thud and a flutter of pages.

“Stupid garbage belongs in the romance section,” Zuko scowled to himself, face flushed red from the words and the exertion of throwing a book halfway across the room. The crown prince of the Fire Nation didn’t indulge in petty pining, much less contract a disease for it. 

And if it were true, who would he be pining for? The only person he even momentarily courted was Jin, and Zuko hardly had a thought about her following his return to the palace. He’d encountered a lot of other attractive people in his travels, but back then Zuko was so hell-bent on finding the Avatar that he didn’t even stop to ogle. He paused to consider the airbender, but the very idea was revolting, so he moved on.

Zuko’s chest responded to his turmoil with a storm of petals that he ended up spewing over the carpet, once rich crimson but now a moth-eaten reminder of its past glories. He bent to pick them up when he noticed how vibrant they were, bright sapphire against muted ruby. 

Soft blue, like a certain someone’s attire. Deep ocean waves, like the flame of passion in his eyes. 

Zuko drew a sharp breath before allowing himself to groan unrestricted into the cushion of his chair. Of all the things he could be doing and people he could be doing them with, he had to develop a _crush_ on an _enemy_. As if his life wasn’t unlucky enough. As if he didn’t have enough problems to deal with, especially that incident with Uncle in the hot spring. He rose to fetch the book from its resting place slumped against the wall.

It was a small mercy that no one else was in this particular wing, else they might’ve walked into a flustered prince with his face burning as he struggled to read, surrounded by a ring of vibrant petals. 

_—when severe enough, manifests physically in the form of flowers. The exact species of flower depends on the personality of each patient and their love interest._

_Historically, the way to remove hanahaki is to have the patient’s need for affection returned by their love interest. This may prove traumatic, especially among those late into stage three, but once the hanahaki has exited the body it is gone forever. Unfortunately, in recent times, this method is not always possible due to the love interest being either uninterested, absent, or dead._

_More recently, it’s been discovered that surgical removal can remove the plant from a patient’s lungs, though this should be done with precision in order not to damage their organs. However, the consequence is that each patient—_

The rest of the pages were burnt off, their paper brown and flaking beneath Zuko’s touch. 

It was disconcerting. The fire was controlled; none of the other pages nor the cover were scorched. Someone had clearly tried to withhold information, maybe not against Zuko but against another member of the royal family. Whatever answers Zuko wanted to find, he wouldn’t find them here.

* * *

Agni’s sun rose and set, and Zuko with it. His cold got worse. The flowers he hid in his cabinets wilted brown, replaced by newer, fresher ones every night. Avatar Aang was rumored to be alive. At night, Zuko dreamed in impossibilities. 

He started dating Mai. 

It was risky. Mai wouldn’t take kindly to being treated as a replacement, and if she ever got wind of his true condition, her knives would be the least dangerous aspect about her. But thinking of Sokka tended to hurt his chest, and Zuko would do anything just to make it go away, to distract himself just one second from the maelstrom within his lungs.

Besides, didn’t he have a crush on her when he was younger? 

Mai seemed to appreciate his efforts. He remembered catching her gaze on him more than once, only to have her turn away with her cheeks tinged pink. Sometimes, when they’d kiss, she let her stoic demeanor dissolve into a smile, shy and tentative. Zuko wondered if she ever coughed up flowers for him. 

Azula made it known that she suspected something. 

“You’re getting overzealous with your acting, _Zuzu_.” She had sneered at him the day after they returned from Ember Island, when the servants were mysteriously away and she’d cornered him into one of the council rooms.

Azula used to call him that when they were little, when she couldn’t form her mouth around the _k_ and repeated the first syllable instead. Now it had been sharpened and barbed, venomous as it tore at his edges. 

Zuko deigned to play dumb. “Mai’s my friend too, and we’re happy together. If you’re jealous, I suggest finding one of the noble’s sons to torture instead.” 

He remembered how she flared, the miasma of ozone suddenly permeating the air. “Then you would know that if she was hurt or used like a _whore_ by someone else, there’d be hell to pay. I would be careful, Brother; Ozai’s not the only one with power around here.” Silk whispered in her wake as she spun around and stalked off.

The summer solstice was fast approaching, and along with it the supposed “Day of the Black Sun” that Azula had gathered from her Earth Kingdom intelligence. Apparently, there were networks of underground tunnels and bunkers underneath the palace that Zuko hadn’t even known about, and Ozai was to hide out in the lowest, most secluded room to wait the eclipse out while his children distracted the Avatar and his forces. Azula had laughed piteously at that and told Zuko to hide as well, he’d only hinder her in her plan. 

(The home guard, protectors of the Caldera, of course, were not informed of all. They had a war meeting deciding it. Zuko’s scar was searing in his mind’s eye and he wanted to choke; he kept his mouth shut and protests down like a good little prince.)

So on the Day of the Black Sun, instead of preparing for a stall with Azula, Zuko spent his time lounging around a secluded pond with Mai. Her hands were warmer than his; if Zuko stared at her face long enough he could ignore the sharp prick of knives against his wrist. 

"I don’t hate you.”

“I don’t hate you too.” Mai nuzzled the crook of Zuko’s neck, oblivious to the way his throat seized up. He mumbled a perfunctory "’Scuse me” before leaning away to cough. An entire flower was spat out this time—Zuko stowed it away in his sleeve and hoped crimson fabric would hide the stain of blood.

Mai laughed, high and airy; an ache was beginning to undulate from his sternum. Her fingers squeezed his as a lithe arm wrapped around his shoulders. "You’re so cold.”

If Zuko hadn’t already been freezing for the past few months, he would’ve felt the shiver that rode up his spine. Mai’s fingernails caught on his skin as he tore his hand away from hers. 

"W-what do you mean I’m cold?”

Mai furrowed her brow. She was quickly losing her mellow demeanor, adopting the steely facade she oft wore in public. "I mean your body feels absolutely frozen to the touch, even when we were in the middle of an Agni-damned beach. Don’t take it too seriously; you helped keep me cool.”

There were sounds of shouting in the distance, rumble of thunder beneath his feet. The battle had already begun. Mai idly watched as the pond water rocked back and forth. 

"I actually saw Azula carrying a flower the other day,” she continued with a sigh, "She said something along the lines of ‘leaving it in Zuko’s room’ and how it would ‘complement nicely with his floral collection’. I’m fine with a bouquet, but please throw away anything Azula brings; it’s probably poisonous. Where are you heading?”

Zuko had already stood up and was jogging back to the palace, pressure building against his chest. He yelled "Forgot there’s a meeting!”, but his words were smothered by the apprehension inside him

Azula knew.

The battle had not yet reached the palace. He almost skidded past the screen door to his room but latched on just in time, throwing it open with reckless abandon. His blankets were neatly folded at the foot of his bed, his clothes and items were filed away. To an observer, everything looked untouched.

Which was a dead giveaway, as Zuko never kept his things organized. 

He nearly thrust his closet door off its hinges, only to be met with a cascade of blue. Next were the drawers more choked with plant matter than clothes, dried leaves in his bedside table, pressed blossoms under his carpet, and a sea of petals beneath his bed. It wasn’t until Zuko finally ripped the sheets off his mattress that he saw something nestled among the flowers he’d forgotten to clean from last night.

It was a slender thing, with a long thin stem that didn't droop when Zuko picked it up. The petals were white against red, an unmistakable inversion of that stupid plant Uncle ate and got sick from back in the Earth Kingdom.

The bloom of a white dragon bush.

Zuko had no idea what Azula was trying to tell him, but one thing was for certain; his sister was duplicitous, and if she found a weakness bad things were sure to follow. He had to burn the evidence immediately.

With shaking hands, Zuko picked up his candle and sparkrocks and struck, once, twice, three times before sparks finally flew and the wick ignited. He then scooped up a handful of flowers and held them to the flame, let them catch fire until they were nothing but ash in his hands.

He dusted them out the window before something in his brain clicked and he finally registered the aftermath.

The flowers were _everywhere_. Overflowing from cabinets and drawers, pooling out from beneath the bed and floor, peeking between cracks in the tapestry. Zuko found himself hyperventilating, breaths shallow and chest too, too tight. This had gotten so, so out of hand.

Zuko shakily buried his face in his hands. This couldn't last. He was back in the palace, and there was no place he’d rather be than home but it’s killing him slowly, and he’s dying. With state of the art medication and treatment with the royal treasuries to fund it, but dying all the same. He needed change. 

He needed the Avatar.

He curled up with a lone candle burning behind his back, the ground a roiling sea of sky. When the Black Sun reached its zenith, he gathered his dao blades and his Uncle’s sandal and his honor, promised to never give up without a fight.

Later, Ozai’s lightning coursing through his lungs, Zuko took a breath and _breathed_.


	3. Number Your Breaths

**III. Number your Breaths**

The sheer ledges of the Western Air Temple gave Zuko vertigo, but his feet had a mind of their own as he climbed these familiar steps. Phantom pains twinged across his scar, his search for the Avatar just three years ago yet another lifetime away.

To surrender himself to his enemy, to willingly offer to join their side, meant certain death in most warzones. Zuko had no idea if the Avatar took prisoners. They treated him well enough with Uncle, but if Zuko knew anything about war, it was that war changed people. It hardly mattered though; he walked his path blind as a dying man, and it made him desperate. 

He treaded past weathered marble, breath sharp and shallow from the exertion. The Avatar’s bison-beast flicked a lazy earto acknowledge him before returning to its grazing. Beyond, in the pavilion, were sounds of laughter and chatter. 

Fire lilies, sunbursts of flame amid pale greens and whites, sprung from cracks in stone, and Zuko stopped to run his hand over their silky petals. He didn’t remember any fire lilies in the Western Temple the last time he visited—they were exclusive to Fire Nation lands, only blooming a few weeks a year. It was also nowhere near their flowering season. 

The stalk snapped off easily; he added it with his growing flower hoard, along with the white dragon blossom and sprinkles of blue.

* * *

His meeting with the Avatar went better than expected. 

Of course, no one had been entirely convinced that Zuko had changed—that was fine, he’d cement his promises with actions come later. It seemed like their ragtag band of children (which he was incidentally now part of) were as desperate for a firebender master as he was for a cure, so Zuko offered his tutelage and pled for amnesty. None of them asked for proof of his mastership, not when they’ve already seen what his flames had wrought time and time again. 

While Zuko felt incredibly awkward when he had to apologize for burning Kyoshi Island, he had dodged a bullet. They were going to discover the truth soon enough—Zuko could hardly heatbend now, much less summon fire—but he wanted to burn those bridges as he crossed them. That would be a problem for _later_ , when everyone had settled down more without him being killed in his sleep. Katara (he had to call everyone by their names now, didn’t he?) didn’t sound like she joked with threats. 

“So, jerkbende—I mean, uh, Zuko.”

Zuko glanced at Sokka’s back. The Water Tribe boy volunteered (or ‘had been emotionally manipulated by his little sister’, he could sympathize) to lead him to his room. He was also heading the wrong way, unless the Avatar’s friends planned for Zuko to sleep among the latrines. 

Sokka’s small talk skills were atrocious. (That was fine, Zuko’s weren’t top notch either.) “Well, glad you, uh, decided to join the Gaang.” Zuko didn’t miss the quiet profanity the other boy let out when he spotted rows upon rows of stalls, and let him shoulder past in the narrow corridor to head back. “But don’t assume we’re going to forgive you! I haven’t forgotten what you did to us back when you had that ponytail—which was ugly, by the way—and you better be on your best behavior, because I have my eyes on you. 

“I think your sister’s already got that, uh, covered,” Zuko ventured, though he couldn’t stop his cheeks from heating at the alternate implication. Sokka’s muscles bunched up under his tunic, the sword sheath strapped onto his back swaying in tandem with his gait. He now walked with the surefooted air of a swordmaster, and belatedly Zuko wondered if Sokka would make a good sparring partner. 

His throat seized up treacherously at the thought. It was a small mercy that Zuko didn’t cough something up during his negotiations with the Avatar, though his voice had been more raspy than usual. Blossoms fluttered incessantly in the back of his mouth.

Sokka’s brows furrowed. "Huh? What did Katara do now?” 

"Threaten to castrate me.” _She looked about to do it, too._

"She has the right idea then. Wouldn’t want that royal family to get bigger than it already has, would we?” Sokka had an oddly adorable grin on his face as he rounded the residence hall. "Aww yes, finally found it! Your room, jerkbender.”

Legs clamped tight together, Zuko stiffly slid the divider door open. 

His room took up a space only a quarter as big as his Fire Nation bedroom, with a bed and a cabinet, no windows, and a generally cozy atmosphere. Floorboards whined as he stepped in. 

"It’s perfect.”

Despite his earlier threats, Sokka beamed at Zuko. He coughed into his hand to catch the few petals that escaped past his lips. "Give me a minute to unpack. I’ll meet you in the pavilion later.”

Sokka nodded. "Take your time, but meet back at sundown. Katara’s cooking dinner and she’ll bend the soup at you if you don’t come. I know. From experience.”

"Okay.” Zuko closed his eyes and cleared his throat the best he could. The next part was surprisingly difficult to utter past his swollen throat and bruised pride. "I know I didn’t say it then, but, uh, t-thank you. For helping Uncle with the bandages. I...I needed that.”

Sokka’s expression softened. Zuko knew his irises were blue, had held them with his own gaze many times during combat, but this was the first time he’d truly seem them for what they were. Blue, like the hearts of glaciers nestled in frigid waters. Blue, like storm-kissed seas flecked with stars. Blue, like the intensity of a flame when it catches on something that lets it burn and lets it _thrive_. "You really loved him, didn’t you? And since you’re part of the family now, consider it my first act as a friend.”

* * *

“Zuko, why can’t you firebend?”

“Wish I knew.” Zuko threw a half-hearted glare at the Avatar seated at the front of the bison’s head. He’d expected riding bison to be similar to riding airship, but the two were entirely separate things. Appa’s fur smelled like stale grass, and wind blew in his face to the point where he could barely keep his eye open. 

It didn’t take long for the monk to start nagging him on firebending techniques, and Zuko had been unable to muster much more than a puff of smoke to show for it. Somewhere along the line that complication resulted the two of them heading off for a “field trip” together. 

He shifted uncomfortably. It felt strange to sit next to his enemy, the person he sought to capture for the last few years of his life, with neither of them trying to kill each other. Before he joined the group, he saw his adversary as an indestructible force of nature, capable of remorselessly tearing down anything and everything in his path. 

But the Avatar—no— _Aang_ was just a little boy. A boy with too much power in his hands and not enough responsibility to control it, who wore flower crowns and got distracted by butterflies and lit up at the slightest praise, who also blew entire fleets into the ocean and snapped a temple in half. 

Aang was also naive enough to trust a banished Fire Nation prince that chased him halfway across the world. Zuko winced as he remembered Katara’s venomous glower when they bid everyone goodbye. If looks could kill, he’d be dead a hundred times over. 

Toph just laughed and punched him in the shoulder. Six times. On the _same spot_. 

Sokka was mysteriously absent. 

“I think I see where it is!” Aang whooped, bending the air around his voice so that Zuko heard him loud and clear. He gave a sharp jerk of his reins. “Yip yip, Appa!”

Sunset had already fallen over the bay waters, lighting its steady waves aflame. Along the shore, spray-dampened sands glowed lilac in the dusk. Appa landed with a grunt. Aang leaped off with a gust of airbending. 

“Okay, Sifu Hotman! Lead the way!” 

“Not so fast.” Zuko’s hand clamped around Aang’s arm. “We’ve already spent several hours flying, and it’s getting dark. Let’s set up camp and wait until morning.”

He half expected Aang to protest but instead received a solemn nod. “I’ll get the supplies, you can start finding a place to set camp.” 

Perhaps the kid wasn’t as naive as he thought. 

Zuko busied himself with scouting for a suitable spot. Something away from the moon’s high tides, yet not too close to the tangles of forest further inland. He was in the middle of inspecting a rocky outcrop carpeted in clovers when Aang’s voice rang out above the din of crickets chirping. “Hey Sifu, where’d you get this?” 

“Get what.” Night was fast falling, and after his father burned half his face off Zuko’s depth perception was never that great; at this distance, whatever Aang held out just looked like a dark, blurry mass. 

“Flowers!” Aang chirped, and Zuko’s throat migrated to his stomach. A cloud of dust bloomed where the airbender landed next to him with their supplies. “Have they started growing arctic forget-me-nots in the Fire Nation? Back in my time, these only grew in the South Pole.”

"Th-that’s uh, nonsense, it must’ve been the wind...forget-me-nots?” Most of his immediate terror melted away to curiosity, though the apprehension still remained. He peered at the blue bundle in Aang’s hand. That would explain their low-lying structure—tundras weren’t exactly rich in biomass.

Aang nodded. "Arctic forget-me-nots,” he repeated, gently petting the petals, "Can I keep this one?”

"I have more back at the temple.”

He did _not_ say that. Zuko snapped his big stupid mouth shut and wondered if redirecting lightning damaged his cognitive abilities or something. No one had ever put his foot in his mouth so spectacularly.

Aang seemed unperturbed at Zuko’s crisis. 

"Flameo! I want to give Katara some, I think she’ll like them.” Zuko jumped as Aang bent an earthen tent above them and then pretended he didn’t. They lit a campfire then ate some food (seal jerky and sea kale, courtesy of Katara), the atmosphere silent save for a steady crackle of flames. Zuko curled his hand among them, watching as tongues of heat danced along his fingers. It was a warm reprieve against the cold he felt constantly now.

"Sokka seems to like you.”

Zuko glanced at Aang, who was gnawing on some biscuit. He shrugged. "He said you’re not what he expected from a ‘jerk-faced fire nation bastard’, that you’re ‘surprisingly nice when you don’t have a stick up your anus’, and you have cool swords and seem to know how to use them.”

"Oh.” Sokka had mentioned the swords part to him in a sparring invitation, but not the rest. He felt much warmer now, and not because of the campfire. " I’ll let him. Know.”

A few minutes passed. 

"And I’ll give you some of the forget-me-nots when we get back,” Zuko added. He decided to leave out the truth of where exactly they originated from.

"Thanks, Sifu Hotman.” Aang’s eyelids were beginning to droop, his words slurring into a yawn. "Good night.”

When Aang’s breathed evened out, Zuko removed the flowers from his robe and looked at then. Even with the smoldering coals of their fire, they shone soft blue with a life of their own. 

"Forget-me-not,” Zuko said bitterly and laughed. The irony was not lost to him.

* * *

_Ursa hummed as she worked, arranging a vase of flowers in the windowsill next to the palace gardens. The weak sunlight framed her face in a way that made her ethereal, as if she wasn’t fully there. She sang a song from the play she and Zuko went to last week—something about love and dragons, he remembered._

_Chin barely cresting the top of the table, Zuko propped himself beside her. He tapped his hands, still pudgy with youth, with a beat not quite in tune against her tempo. Ursa’s hands brushed against the flowers, delicate starbursts of white against red._

_“What’re those, Mom?”_

_She laughed; her voice sounded so, so far away. “The white dragon bush flower, Zuko. They’re native to the Earth Kingdom, but they used to grow in my hometown.”_

_Zuko was intrigued. He was just beginning to learn about his Nation’s conquests into the Earth Kingdom in his lessons, and it seemed weird to think that such a beautiful flower could originate from such a barbaric country. “Why is it here, then?”_

_“I brought them with me, when I came here. It had been a parting gift...from someone back then.” Ursa’s hand pressed against her chest before sliding to her throat, rubbing it gently._

_“Who’s it from?”_

_“I wish I knew.” Ursa backed off, leaving Zuko alone with the vase of flowers. “I wish I knew.”_

He woke with the thrum of dawn against his body, blue-covered sheets shifting as he threw them off. The hanahaki has been getting worse; Zuko would rise to a sea of forget-me-nots across his room almost daily. None of the other members shared his early-bird habit, fortunately, and he took care of the mess before they woke. 

Zuko rolled up his sheets, tossing the petals haphazardly under his hundred-year-old, authentic Air Nomad cot.

He would burn them, if he could; Zuko still hadn’t regained his firebending. Embarrassingly enough, the Sun Warriors seemed to catch on.

Their chief had pulled him to the side, while Aang was still distracted blasting plumes of fire in front of the crowd. “Hanahaki?” 

“Yes?” Zuko’s heart thudded in his chest, though from the recent experience or the chief’s scrutiny he didn’t know. 

The chief sighed. “Look kid, Ran and Shaw can’t help you with that. Best thing to do would be to reconcile with your love interest, and hope they feel or are willing to feel the same way about you. If not, there’s always surgery.” 

“Surgery? I-I’ve heard of it as an option before, but isn’t there some kind of consequence—”

“Aye, they cut the flower gone. You recover fine, forget all the memories you had with the person. Seems like a trivial drawback, but some people don’t like it and who am I to judge?” He had shrugged, patting Zuko sympathetically on the shoulder. “It’s either that or slow death. Good luck, you’re going to need it.” 

Zuko swung his legs over the edge of his bed, coughing weakly as his throat seized. He leaned over the bedpost again and retched, just to clear everything up. 

Would Zuko want to forget Sokka? On one hand, he hardly knew him; they had met for the first time less than a year ago, been allies much less than that. The Gaang would simply attribute his amnesia to an injury to the head specifically meant for Sokka-shaped memories, and he would continue training the Avatar. 

On the other, Sokka was the person he empathized most with, bizarrely enough. Constantly outshone by a prodigal sister and a powerful political figure, with a natural tendency to stumble whenever he attempted anything serious and, if Aang was to be trusted, skilled with swords. He watched his mother get taken away, his homeland ransacked, yet still had the heart to offer bandages to people who needed them. He used his limitations as a launching pad, a non-bender outclassed in a bender-dominant world but fighting all the same, because if the sky was the limit then Sokka would be reaching for the stars. 

Zuko didn’t want to forget how when he first ate, Sokka had been the person who handed him his bowl. How he was the reason why Zuko referred to their group as the “Gaang”, as cringeworthy as the name was. How he led him through the maze of temples with quiet looks behind his shoulder. How, he confided in Zuko one hazy morning, that the reason he let himself be the butt end of all of Katara’s insults and Toph’s pranks and Aang’s laughter was because he understood war and they didn’t, not yet, and he wanted them to be happy and carefree for a few years longer. 

Who am I to judge, the chief said. Basking in the morning light, Zuko made his decision. 

Didn’t matter much anyways. Sozin’s comet was fast approaching, and they had better things to do that deal with his stupid crush. Zuko jumped off the bed, snagging his dao blades and oilcloth propped in the corner—stray petals drifting on the floor, door wide open as he left.

* * *

Blades sang in the air, an otherwise vacant clearing filling with the grunts of their wielders. Black blurred as an onyx sword swung down, only to be knocked off course by the flash of a dao. It clattered on the marble steps before laying still. 

“Wow, good one.” Sokka pulled up the neck of his tunic to wipe his forehead, damp with perspiration. Zuko panted shallowly as he sheathed his dao blade. He went to pick up the other one, which Sokka had sent flying out of his hand earlier with an impressive wrist maneuver. 

Over the course of weeks, the Gaang had warmed up to him. Tensions were high when he first left with Aang, but simmered down after they both came back intact. Sokka had expressed his gratitude after they freed Hakoda and Suki from Boiling Rock, and even Katara stopped threatening him after he helped her forgive the man that killed her mother.

“Thanks. You’re no pushover either.” In went the other dao. Sokka straightened to a stretch, exposing a sliver of midriff as he raised his arms over his head. Zuko averted his gaze. “I haven’t had a good sparring partner in a while.” 

“Ditto to you too. That’s not fair, how are you good with fire magic _and_ swords?” If Sokka noticed Zuko’s wince, he gave no indication. “How ‘bout we head back? I betcha I can make smoothies with the moon peaches Aang found.” 

Zuko wasn’t particularly fond of moon peaches, and with the both of them so hot and sweaty, stewing in the presence of his stupid crush would be a mistake. “I’ll pass.” 

Sokka shrugged. “Your loss.”

Zuko ducked an overhang of vines, heading back to his room on the other side of the temple. Though he’d already gained most of their trust, he never joined them when they slept together out in the open. He insisted that it was because he grew up sleeping alone all his life.

(That didn’t stop Aang from giving him a sympathetic pat on his shoulder.)

His room had been left ajar to air out (you’d think airbender architecture would have good circulation), so he was surprised to find it firmly shut upon his return. There was tittering inside, haphazard banging as the culprit stumbled into walls. 

Zuko opened his door. 

A white burst of fur flew out screeching angrily, stretching its webbed wings and disappearing around the corner. As Momo left, he shed little mementos in his wake.

Blotches of blue fluttered in the air, made almost animated by the breeze before resting against marble. With rising trepidation, he swung the door fully open. 

Zuko’s entire room was trashed. His picture of Ursa had been flung across the room, sheets halfway behind the cabinet, and the damned animal had somehow even ripped the stuffing from his pillow. The forget-me-nots he had carefully crammed under his bed were clinging to every available surface, like the aftermath to a tempest. He dropped to his knees and started gathering them up as fast as he could. 

The door was still open. He spun around to close it when—

“Dude, you’re missing out!” Sokka poked his head in from behind the doorway, a bowl of pearly white slush in his hand. “I’ve given it to the rest of the Gaang and they all think it’s great and you should totally try it too—”

He stopped, taking in the chaos of Zuko’s room. “What is doing on here?”

Zuko froze. This was not how he imagined his confession to be, not sprawled down surrounded by the tatters of his guilt. His lungs weren’t straining but he was breathless, his throat clear for once yet couldn’t speak.

"Zuko...”

"I can explain, Sokka,” he managed quickly. At best, Sokka would judge him for retching flowers. At worse, he knew about hanahaki and would make a connection. Zuko didn’t know what exactly he could explain, though that didn't stop him from repeating. "I-I can explain everything, just sit and calm for a mo-”

"You have it too?”

That earned Sokka a double-take. “You mean…”

“I thought I was the only one.” He stooped to pick up one of the stray petals, rubbing it against his thumb and forefinger. “I started coughing up flowers right after Ba Sing Se, but I thought I had a fever for the longest time—according to Katara, my internal temperature was super high but other than a breathing problem there wasn’t anything. She knows what it is, by the way; I’ve been having her soothe my lungs with her water magic, which is why you probably haven’t heard me coughing much.” 

Zuko watched him in amazement. “You mean...we had the same disease and neither of us made the connection?”

“Guess so.” Sokka had the grace to look sheepish. “Look, uh, now that you know, I, uh, might as well get this over with.” 

Sokka’s eyes flashed blue, deep determination but this time with a wavering of uncertainty and accepts of apprehension. He exhaled. “I like you. There, I said it! I don’t know how exactly, just that you kind of grew on me—no pun intended. You ruined my favorite pike, threatened my village, and keep going after Aang like some kind of creep.” 

“But you’re also the reason why Aang didn’t get captured by Zhao. You chose to stand by our side in the ghost town, against _your sister_. And maybe you sided with her again in the catacombs, but you also volunteered to rescue Dad and Suki back from Boiling Rock, knowing that you might get caught.” 

“Sokka...I…”

“Don’t. It’s okay, you don’t have to pretend you like me back or anything.” Sokka dropped his gaze and looked away. “You dropped everything to come here and help teach Aang. I saw how the gloomy girl looked at you back when we escaped from the prison.” 

“Sokka, _no_.” Zuko grabbed Sokka’s wrists and pulled him forward, meeting his eyes again. “Mai has nothing to do with this. We were never meant to be together anyways. I-I like you, and I mean it. I liked you ever since we fought, back in the South Pole.” He allowed himself to cough. “When I knocked you down and you stood back up, and said the words I had built my life around ever since my banishment.”

The other boy picked up surprisingly fast. “Never give up without a fight?” 

“Never give up without a fight,” Zuko confirmed. 

“I see.” Sokka stilled, contemplative. “Then you don’t mind me doing this. Close your eyes, Zuko.” 

Zuko obliged, apprehension building in his throat. He heard floorboards creaking, the odd shift of fabric as Sokka kneeled in front of him. Warm breaths whispered across his cheek. Nothing prepared him for the light brush of lips against his own, locking on then pressing firm across the opening of his mouth. 

If he made any noise of shock, they were muffled by Sokka’s mouth around his. The next moment he felt a pressure against his chest and throat, the fluttering right before he vomited flowers, only ten times more insistent. 

He shoved Sokka away as petals began to escape his lips. The entire process was excruciatingly painful, like his lungs were tearing themselves apart. Zuko heard similar retching behind him, saw blue mixed with red as knees buckled onto the ground. 

Then, blessedly, there was nothing.

* * *

He woke in an entirely different section of the temple, the rays of sunlight streaming through cracks in the canopy pools of warmth against sore skin. Zuko bearily opened his eyes. Someone had propped him up on a pillow and thrown a blanket over him; this time no blue dotted the surface.

Katara’s head peeked out from beyond the doorway. "You’re awake!” she said incredulously.

Zuko cleared his throat and was surprised to find it clear. He winced as he shifted, stiff muscles protesting from the movement. His voice was rougher than usual when he spoke. "How long was I out?” 

In a flash Katara was beside his bed, uncapping her water pouch and drawing out a stream of already glowing water. 

"About two days, stretching three.” Her hand was cool and soothing on his chest. "Lie. Down. You had a lot of internal damage to your lungs and trachea, and my waterbending can only speed up the process so far.”

Zuko rolled his eyes and settled back into his pillows. Ever since Katara forgave him after the Southern Raiders, she had proven to be a incessant mothering force that should be heeded at all costs. 

“I’m not even going to ask what condition you were in and how long you’ve had it. Just know that I think you’re both stupid for waiting it out for as long as you did, without bothering to talk about it with the rest of us.” Her fingers stilled, then drew away; whatever Katara found was satisfactory enough to not warrant further healing. “I’m talking about you too, Sokka, since you never told me _Zuko_ is the object of your affections.” 

“Katara, if I’d told you you’d’ve killed him.” Zuko hastened to sit up again as Sokka shuffled into his room. Blue eyes landed on him and Sokka smiled. “Hey, Zuko.” 

“H-hi.”

Katara sighed, half exasperation and half amusement. “Fine, but you’re the one explaining all of this to Aang and Toph.” She stood and headed out of the room. “I’ll leave you guys to it.” 

After she left, Zuko felt a warm hand slip into his, firm and grounding. He rubbed gentle circles into Sokka’s palm with his thumb. “Are you alright?”

“Hmm? Yeah! Yeah, ’m fine.” Sokka’s voice was a little hoarse for wear, but lacked the breathless quality Zuko’s had. “I woke up yesterday, actually—I think it’s because I had hanahaki for half as long as you did, so the roots of my flower didn’t...ingrain themselves as much. So you don’t have to worry about me.” He laughed weakly. “Speaking of worry, I think we cost Katara a couple years off her life. You should’ve seen her—she couldn’t decide whether she’d be hysterical or pissed at me. I said that if the hanahaki didn’t kill me, her aggressive mothering would. Aang’s still stressed about you, and even Toph’s concerned. She’ll act all nonchalant if you confront her about it, but she’s the one that bent this bed.”

Huh, so that was why his bed felt so hard. “Katara…”

“Knows about us,” Sokka said, “I had to tell her. That speech she just said to you? That’s her way of showing you up, in a way. She probably could’ve said more but I asked her not to give you too much dirt.” 

Zuko’s hand had gravitated toward Sokka’s wrist then upward to the soft skin on the underside of his arm. He felt an odd urge to nuzzle it, and leaned down to do just that. It was then that his sleep-addled mind registered the unspoken statement that lingered in the air. 

"Sokka?”

"Hmm?” Sokka let out an audible huff as Zuko withdrew, cold air flooding the space between their bodies. 

“Are you okay with—” he gestured toward their hands, still intertwined, “—this? I-I’m really bad at being good. I pushed you guys around like a...a _jerk_ and my father’s the fire lord, and I really don’t think I deserve you—mph!”

There were lips pressed against his again, tender yet insistent, and Zuko found himself enjoying the sensation now that he knew he wasn’t going to throw up after. His protests died in his throat as Sokka pulled him closer, mouths sealing together. Zuko pawed at his wolf-tail. 

“Wow, that’s a good way to shut you up. I should’ve done this back when we first met.” Sokka’s hair was a bit messy, his voice a little breathless, but he had a quirking smile that made Zuko feel warm inside. “Did these awesome Water Tribe kissing skills fry your brain?” 

Zuko blinked. “Uhm.” 

Sokka snorted. “Look,” he said, “I think you’ve forgotten that the feeling is mutual, so we’re probably both idiots here. I’m the one that made you throw up in the first place, and do you see me apologizing for that, do you?” He paused, winced, then patted him awkwardly. "That, uh, came out wrong—I’m sorry I had to make your lungs do a mass eviction but uh, it was necessary, okay? I hope you feel better now, because yeah. Anyways, stop it with the self angst and be my boyfriend.”

Leave it to Sokka to start off suave before melting into a puddle of stammering mess that was somehow endearing. With a smile, Zuko placed his finger on the Water Tribe boy’s mouth and watched as his cheeks grew steadily redder.

"Thank you,” he said. It was easier the second time.

The other boy rolled his eyes, face still an interesting shade of caramel and carmine. Zuko grinned at that. "My boyfriend is so wonderfully modest.” The words felt new on his tongue, but comfortable right in a way that beat coughing up petals. 

"Says the jerk who called me ‘filthy peasant’ when we first met.”

Zuko’s smile fell so fast it almost gave him whiplash. "No.”

Sokka’s laughter rang clear into the courtyard.

* * *

It was evening, and the sunset bloomed in reds and yellows, bathing the temple’s marble pillars in an ambient glow. _Red skies at night, sailor’s delight_ he remembered hearing, back when he was with his crew, on a steamboat stranded at sea. Ozai still reigned strong and they were still at war, but now Ba Sing Se had fallen and the Avatar was alive and Aang discovered firebending and Zuko found his honor in the most unlikely of places. As he idly swung his legs over the side of the temple—stomach warm with dinner, chest clear for the first time in months—Zuko felt strangely content. 

He was holding up his fire lily (the one he picked a lifetime ago) to the sun when he heard the shuffle of a body beside him. Zuko didn’t bother turning around; he knew who the steady, shuffling lope belonged to like the back of his hand. 

“That was mine, in case you didn’t know,” Sokka said. 

“This?” Agni’s rays shone through the translucent petals, highlighting the deep red of veins against yellow that gave the plant its namesake. “There were patches of them on the steps outside. I didn’t know they could survive outside the body.”

“I didn’t either. It was an accident, really.” Two feet joined his on the stone precipice. “After we left Ba Sing Se, I was in a bad shape. What I thought was a little fever or heatstroke turned into a burning pain that wouldn’t go away. I coughed up an entire flower the day we set up camp here. Katara picked it up and chucked out of the temple. She actually has a nice throwing arm.” 

Zuko winced at Sokka’s indirect implication of why his condition got worse, but the other boy didn’t seem bitter. He continued. “I can’t believe I didn’t make you connection. You coughed way too much for it to be normal, and talked like you swallowed a mouthful of sand. At first, I thought all firebenders were like that because of, y’know, fire and stuff. After your sister, I thought it was from you inhaling too much smoke or something.”

“Sorry I took so long. To realize, I mean.” 

A flock of large, slender birds flew in and landed among the canyon trees. Sea cranes, white and navy with a red crown, roosting on the treetops before continuing their migration from the southern floes to the Fire Nation across miles of ocean. The lily slipped from his fingers, a stray breeze whisking it away and out of sight. 

Sokka let him lean on his shoulder; Zuko could feel the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. Calloused fingers sought out his and gripped. 

“Don’t be. I hated you at first, but now I can’t imagine my life without you.” 

Together, they could grow a different kind of bloom. 

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I might do an addendum just to fill in any plotholes and things I never got to touch on, but this is the end.  
>  _Edit: WOW THIS HAS OVER 300 KUDOS YOU GUYS ARE AMAZING_


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